


Sweet Dreams

by vintagelilacs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Begging, Blow Jobs, Erotic Dreams, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-04 16:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15845478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagelilacs/pseuds/vintagelilacs
Summary: Sherlock's hawkish gaze raked over him, discerning what the average eye would skip over entirely. John was aware he looked wearier than usual, with prominent bags under his bloodshot eyes, but he wondered what else Sherlock would be able to glean; what sort of conclusions he could draw and logical leaps he could make. His powers of observation were downright scary even at the worst of times."There’s no sign of your intermittent hand tremor and you're not displaying symptoms of anxiety. Then what else could it be?” his voice dropped to a low undertone, and he spoke more to himself than to John. “What have you been dreaming about?"Buggering you into the mattress. Your pale body wriggling underneath mine.God, he hoped Sherlock wasn't secretly a mind-reader.





	Sweet Dreams

Sherlock's gesticulating form continued to grow blurrier as the minutes wore on, until he was little more than a smudge of wildly flailing limbs trying to illustrate some sort of miraculous discovery he'd made. John's eyelids drooped. They felt as if they had leaden weights attached to the ends. He was too tired to even offer a mechanical "hm" or an "I see" or even a "wow, Sherlock, that's brilliant." When his head began to dip towards his chin, Sherlock finally became cognizant of his inattentiveness.

"You're not listening." Another sound observation from the world's only consulting detective. "But this is fascinating, John! A body found inside a snowman without any physical signs of trauma! They’re trying to rule his cause of death as hypothermia but that makes no sense! He would hardly stay inside a snowman until he froze to death, and someone else had to have made the snowman around his corpse." 

"'m sorry," John mumbled, hardly following what Sherlock was saying. Something about a snowman? But it was mid July. "I didn't sleep well." 

Sherlock stalked towards him where he was slumped in his seat. "You retired to bed last night at half past ten. Your usual masturbatory sessions only take eight minutes and twenty-three seconds. There's no reason for you not to have slept well." 

This time, John allowed his eyes to close from exasperation rather than exhaustion. "Do I want to know how you even know that?" 

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Irrelevant."

"Right, well, I haven't been having an easy time falling asleep lately." 

"But why? Your work at the clinic may not be fulfilling, but we've had no shortage of cases lately, and one of your blog posts," he wrinkled his nose to show what he thought of that, "was just featured in an article. So, why can't you sleep?" 

_Guilt,_ a voice in John's brain supplied. He dutifully ignored it. "I've been, ah, having rather disturbing dreams lately." 

Sherlock's hawkish gaze raked over him, discerning what the average eye would skip over entirely. John was aware he looked wearier than usual, with prominent bags under his bloodshot eyes, but he wondered what else Sherlock would be able to glean; what sort of conclusions he could draw and logical leaps he could make. His powers of observation were downright scary even at the worst of times.

"Not of Afghanistan," Sherlock decided eventually. "There’s no sign of your intermittent hand tremor and you're not displaying symptoms of anxiety. Then what else could it be?” his voice dropped to a low undertone, and he spoke more to himself than to John. “What have you been dreaming about?"

 _Buggering you into the mattress._ God, he hoped Sherlock wasn't secretly a mind-reader. 

"It's clear there's a recurring theme, otherwise you wouldn't be so perturbed." 

_Your pale body wriggling underneath mine, that magnificent arse of yours clamping down around my cock._ John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Sherlock was not an easy person to hide things from, and John was rather surprised he hadn't deduced his blatant attraction to him yet. Even Lestrade had made a few inquiries over their relationship, which John had pointedly ignored. 

"Tell me," Sherlock ordered, irritated at not being able to immediately arrive at the answer for himself. 

John huffed out a relieved breath. He was in the clear for now. "What, you can't deduce it?" 

"Your breathing is elevated, though you're not afraid. Not angry, either." His pale, kaleidoscopic eyes narrowed. "I don't understand." 

John chuckled at that. "Right, I guess this isn't your area, is it?" He could tell the detective was growing frustrated. 

"Why won't you tell me?" 

"Sometimes dreams are personal, Sherlock." 

“Tedious.” 

“Even so, there are some things I'd rather keep to myself.” 

“But isn’t this what friends do? Discuss what’s on their mind?” 

John’s brows raised. “You want to have a heart-to-heart? _You_?” 

“It doesn’t make sense!” Sherlock exclaimed. “You haven’t suffered any recent traumatic experiences. What’s changed in your personal life to have triggered recurring dreams?” 

To John’s surprise, Sherlock seemed genuinely bothered by his ignorance on the issue. His hand itched to reach forwards and smooth out the furrow between Sherlock’s eyebrows. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he assured. “Really.” 

”You say that, but evidence points to the contrary. I can’t have my blogger passing out from exhaustion. What if we’re in the middle of a case and your lack of sleep catches up to you?” 

”Coming from someone who gets an average of fours hours sleep a night, I don’t think you should be this worried over me.” 

“Of course I worry about you.” 

John would never admit it out loud for fear of sounding like a lovestruck teenager, but he swore his heart skipped a beat. Sherlock wasn't the type to profess his feelings, and what he'd just said veered awfully close to sentiment. Moments like these were few and far between, but he treasured the rare instances where Sherlock let his affection be known. 

“You actually worry about me?” John clarified, his voice softening. If he was expecting the touching moment to go on, he was sorely mistaken. 

Sherlock looked away. “Who would clean up the flat and pay the bills if you weren’t here? Mrs. Hudson isn’t getting any younger.” 

Right. Of course. “That’s all I am to you, aren’t I?” he asked drily. He knew Sherlock would never regard him with the same depth of feeling that he felt for him, but it still left him disappointed. “Just a bloody housekeeper.” He suddenly understood Mrs. Hudson’s constant reminders that it wasn’t her job to coddle them. 

“That’s not... “ Sherlock started to protest. “I…”

John allowed him a few minutes to gather his thoughts, but it seemed basic speech was beyond him. Didn’t seem they were going to get anywhere with this. He pushed up from the couch. “Not that this wasn’t nice, but I’m knackered.” He padded towards the stairs, stealing a final glance at Sherlock’s face. His shoulders caved inwards and his eyes were downcast. He had a defeated air about him, but John wasn’t about to question it. At the moment, he really didn’t care. 

“I’ve upset you,” Sherlock called after him. He’d almost reached the foot of the stairs. Sherlock’s statement wasn’t entirely inaccurate. He was upset, but more so at himself. He knew Sherlock wasn’t obligated to return his feelings or to consider John as anything more than a friend. He was lucky to even be considered that much. 

”It’s fine, Sherlock.” He didn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears. “I really am just tired, okay?” 

No response, but that was just as well. Sherlock had probably moved on to something more worthy of his attention. Maybe he’d even deleted the conversation already. 

With a sigh, John prepared for bed. A shameful feeling curdled in his gut as he slid under the covers. His stomach twisted itself into knots, equal parts anticipation and guilt. He didn’t always remember his dreams when he woke up, but the ones he’d had the past few nights had been startlingly vivid. 

_Sherlock begging for him, needy and gasping._

_Sherlock looming over him, his lips twisted in a self-satisfied smirk as he deduced all of John’s secret fantasies, and then proceeded to make them a reality._

_Sherlock touching him in places no one ever had, and begging for his touch in return._

But even more disconcerting were the dreams where nothing sexual occurred. Those particular dreams were filled with sweet-nothings and gentle caresses, of loving stares and deep kisses. Even innocuous dreams, like him and Sherlock eating breakfast or grocery shopping together left him with an incurable ache in his chest. 

Sexual attraction was one thing. Sherlock s physical features were undeniably striking. And no one was one hundred percent straight. Most people who looked at Sherlock cupid’s bow or light coloured eyes, the sharp jut of his collar bones or his inky black curls likely felt some form of attraction. And his cheekbones! They were almost absurd. The man himself was absurd. 

Oh, but was he ever sexy. There was no shortage of what John wanted to do to him. It had gotten to the point where he entertained sexual thoughts regarding Sherlock during the daytime too. When Sherlock went on long-winded rants and length diatribes, he often imagined slotting their lips together until Sherlock’s only thoughts were of him. Or on days when he refused to pick up after himself or clear up old experiments, John imagined throwing him over the table and fucking him until he screamed. 

John glanced down at his lap, which was already starting to look rather excited. He felt like a bloody teenager again. It would be nice if his dreams would just stop and he could put this mess behind himself, but if he had to choose, he’d rather have another sex dream about Sherlock than one of the sweet, domestic ones. 

A romantic relationship with someone like Sherlock was completely unattainable, but ex dreams he could at least chalk up to the tension that sometimes occurred between them, or as a side effect of all the dates Sherlock intruded on. 

Either way, his dreams were starting to drive him barmy. If they kept up, he wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to be able to prevent Sherlock from figuring out how he felt. It was honestly kind of miraculous that he hadn’t already deduced the number of times John had wanked to thoughts of his pert arse or his gorgeous lips, and what he could do with them. 

John briefly considered having a quick wank before going to sleep, but ultimately decided against it. Two weeks of not having a sufficient sleep was starting to catch up to him. He rolled over onto his side, silently chanting a mantra of _’do not think about Sherlock’_ as he faded into lassitude. 

* * *

A low, guttural moan cleaved through the still night air. Sherlock stood at the side of John’s bed, his cheeks flushed and his pupils eclipsing his irises. For a moment John allowed himself to admire the gorgeous Adonis of a man, before realization struck. Two things occurred to him simultaneously. 

1\. _He wasn’t asleep._

And 2. _this wasn’t a dream._

”Sherlock? Wha—why are you in my room?" he demanded. 

His cheeks reddened even further. "I-I thought." Sherlock licked his (deliciously full) lips. "That is, I intended to record your breathing rate and monitor you for signs of distress. I wanted to determine the nature of the dreams that were troubling you." His eyes were wide and distressingly honest. 

"Ah, shit." John scrubbed a hand over his face. "This is why I didn't want you to know." He took in a few fortifying breaths, before forcing himself to meet his flatmate's gaze. "You have no right to be mad, you know. You're the one who..." his voice petered out. There was no trace of anger in Sherlock's face. Even in the dark, the look of intense hunger on his face was extremely apparent. 

"You shouted my name," Sherlock accused. “While you were sleeping.” 

John licked his lips. “I was asleep,” he pointed out. “I didn't have much control over it." 

"You're attracted to me." 

John had never been one to search for the easy way out, or to back down from a fight. Even so, he knew he was about to cross some sort of line. "Yes," he admitted with some reservation.

“How could I have missed it?” Sherlock cursed himself, but his voice sounded breathier than usual. 

”Well, it’s not like I made some huge announcement how every now and then, I’m attracted to the odd bloke.” 

“I haven’t noticed any significant change in your mannerisms!” He was pacing now, but seeing that blue silk robe billow up and expose fleeting glimpses of the gorgeous arse beneath was hardly a cause for complaint. Jesus, his pants looked so thin, it was almost like the material had been painted on. 

John licked his lips, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock’s ample behind. “I, um, took a while to figure it out myself. It was actually the dreams about you that clued me in.” 

Sherlock rounded on him. “When did the dreams start?” 

”Couple weeks ago.” 

”Weeks? _Weeks?_ But you're terrible at lying! I should have realized sooner.” Sherlock flinched suddenly, as if physically struck by a wayward thought. “The dreams, what happens in them?” 

He shifted, his neglected cock throbbing out its discontent. “Fairly sure we already established that.” 

“The specifics, John.” Sherlock sighed somewhat impatiently. “Was it oral sex or penetrative? Who was the dominant partner? Actually, never mind, it's obvious. The idea of having me listen to you for a change would be all too appealing for you. You would do the penetrating.” He paused, considering. “But you also tire of routine. You crave danger and risk. The idea of being at my mercy would excite you. I’m of course amenable to both, so I’ll let you choose which one now.”

“Now?” John echoed, his brain stuttering to a halt. “Sherlock, what are you saying?” 

“You haven’t achieved orgasm yet, though it appears you’re on the verge of it. We might as well make the most of it, though in the future it would be preferable if you could endeavor to last longer.” 

“I… I’m not following. You just found out I’ve been having erotic dreams about you. Shouldn’t you be, I dunno, upset?”

“Why would I? I used to steal pairs of your underwear and touch myself through them.” 

“You used to…” John squinted. At second glance, Sherlock’s red pants were _very_ familiar. “Hey! Those are mine.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Stellar deduction. Really, it’s a good thing that of the two of us, I’m the detective.”

“Piss off. When did you even take those?”

”Oh, a few months ago.” 

Months? Sherlock had been wearing his pants for months? “How long have you, uh, been interested in me? Assuming that’s why you took them.” 

He shrugged nonchalantly. “You have a very attractive body.” 

John glanced down at himself. Middle-age and below average height, with a bit of pudge around his stomach, and a latticework of scars on his shoulder. Hardly what society would deem attractive. 

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t believe me. You visibly cringed when you looked at yourself. I’m the smartest person you know, so shouldn’t I be on good authority that you are an extremely attractive man?” 

”That’s sweet of you to say, Sherlock, but I’m really not.” 

”You are! Do you have any idea how many times I’ve touched myself and pretended it was you? Why do you think I sabotaged so many of your dates? John Watson, you have no comprehension of how badly I want you.”

All the air in his lungs dissipated. His throat felt dessicated all of a sudden, and he had to clear it several times before he could speak again. “Well, I’m starting to get a rough idea.” 

”I’ll show you,” Sherlock announced, his voice leaving no room for objection. 

”Show me?” 

In lieu of answering, Sherlock dropped to his knees. _Oh fuck._ With a determined set to his jaw, the consulting detective peeled back John’s pants. His cock immediately sprang free, slapping lightly against his stomach. ”Oh! It’s… thicker than I anticipated.” 

Anticipated? Did that mean Sherlock had entertained thoughts of John’s cock before? He licked his lips, both out of nervousness and arousal. ”And is that—”

”It’s fine!” Sherlock interrupted. “It’s… I-I want…” 

”Yes?” John prompted, because he was fairly certain he wanted Sherlock to finish that thought. 

”You have to understand, I’m not the most adept at articulating what I’m thinking.” 

That was news to him. Sherlock was rarely shy when it came to offering unwanted commentary or criticisms. 

”But it’s… I want it. It’s so big.” His breath hitched. “I want to taste it and suck on it and I want what happened in your dreams. I want you inside me.” He’d scarcely finished his admission before he was wrapping a hand around John’s leaking prick.

John’s hips immediately bucked up, eagerly seeking the friction. Sherlock had the most beautiful hands. Large and long-fingered, dexterous and agile, but somehow also dainty. He stroked John with single-minded focus, his thumb swiping across the head. John was going to get a hard-on every time he watched Sherlock play the violin from now on. 

“Is this alright?” Sherlock asked, his lips hovering closer. 

”Fuck, Sherlock, it’s better than alright.” 

Cool breath ghosted over his cock as Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “Not yet, it isn’t.” 

Before John could scrounge up a response, Sherlock’s tongue darted out, swirling and spreading the precome the same way he’d just done with his thumb. John knew it wasn’t the best etiquette to start thrusting into your partner’s mouth without warning, but he couldn’t help himself. Sherlock’s plump lips looked gorgeous wrapped around the puffy head of his cock. His hips snapped forwards, his cock sliding against Sherlock’s soft palate before he could regain an iota of self-control. He curled his fingers in the sheets, gripping them until they were white-knuckled. It took every ounce of willpower not to bury them in Sherlock’s gorgeous sweep of dark curls and fuck his throat. 

Sherlock pulled back slightly, but before John could feel disappointed, his skillful tongue was lapping at the slit. 

“You’re so hot,” John groaned, swearing a blue-streak as Sherlock hollowed his cheeks in a particularly powerful suck. Sherlock hummed around him in acknowledgement, the vibration making his toes curl. His head bobbed up and down with an expertise John certainly hadn't anticipated.  
John wasn’t normally one to get overwhelmed after only a couple minutes of being sucked off, but his cock had already been aching for release before Sherlock had even fitted his mouth around him. 

His heartbeat thumping loud in his ears, John tugged on Sherlock’s curls in an attempt to pull him off. Sherlock chose to ignore him, which really shouldn’t come as a surprise. With a mix between a sob and a moan, John thrust his hips further into the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth. He felt like his cock was exploding. Sherlock swallowed the first pulses of come, but eventually pulled off to cough. 

John threw an arm over his face. He felt… almost giddy. He wanted to laugh or… or do something, he wasn’t sure what. ”That was absolutely insane.” He lowered his arm so he could better see Sherlock’s glorious, flushed face. “God, I can't believe we just did that!”

Sherlock recoiled as if he'd been slapped. “I’ll, um, just go take care of this.” His voice was neutral and emotionless, but his lower lip was faintly trembling.

John’s hand shot out, wrapping firmly around Sherlock’s wrist. “Don't you dare.” 

He tried to tug himself free from John’s grip. “John, really. This is more than I ever expected to have with you, and you should not feel obligated to ‘repay me,’ as it were. I'm perfectly fine resuming our relationship as normal and putting this incident behind us.” 

“Yeah?” John watched as Sherlock's mouth and chin trembled even more. “Well I'm not.” Sherlock’s eyes widened as he continued. “It's a bit to wrap my head around, I won't lie, but I've wanted you for so long. So long, Sherlock, Jesus.” 

“A number of my physical attributes seem to coincide with what the majority of the population considers attractive,” he answered slowly. 

“Not just your appearance, for Chrissakes!” How could Sherlock seriously be this dense? “Sherlock, it wasn't the sex dreams that made me realize I like you. They were part of it, but,” he worried his lip between his teeth. “You’ve been in almost every dream I've had, even the weird one where grandma Watson tried to poison me and Harry with Banoffee pie.”

”Really?” 

”Yeah, you were actually the one to solve our murders and put nan behind bars. But what I’m trying to say is, even my subconscious mind can't picture life without you. And I realized, you're the last thing I think of when I fall asleep, and the first when I wake up.” His throat was achingly dry, but he persevered through the sudden hoarseness. “Sherlock, you're it for me.”

“You as well.” Sherlock licked his lips. “I mean, you… it’s always been you. John Watson, you keep me right.”

“We keep each other right,” John corrected. 

Sherlock’s erection, which had flagged a bit during their conversation, once again stood at attention. 

“Now, why don't we take care of that, hm?” With an enthusiastic nod from Sherlock, John helped him extricate himself from his robe before easing his pants down his hips.

Sherlock’s cock was flushed dark and dripping copious amounts of precome. "You're so wet," John murmured. It took a moment for Sherlock to process his statement, but when he did he let out the most erotic whimper John had ever heard. 

“What do you want me to do?”

Sherlock’s chest heaved. “I—” his lips moved soundlessly. A speechless Sherlock was a novel sight, and John would be lying if he said he doubt enjoy being the cause of it. “You… do whatever you want.” 

John’s lips twitched. He tried not to smile at Sherlock. “I want everything, so you’re going to need to be more specific.” 

“Just your hand for now.” 

John curled his hand around the pulsating length with sedulous care and gave it a few tentative strokes. It had been awhile since he’d been so intimately acquainted with another’s man’s unmentionables. Sherlock’s cock was slender like the rest of him, and curved slightly to the right. It was the same rosy hue as his cheeks were, and it was almost… cute, if cocks could be considered as such. 

”Faster!” Sherlock ordered. 

John ceased his careful strokes, stopping his hand entirely. His heart hammered from what he was about to say. “Beg.” 

Sherlock didn’t so much as question him. “Please! Please John, I need you. It has to be you. My penis—” Sherlock paused. “My cock,” he amended, “needs you.” 

John didn’t know whether to laugh at Sherlock’s attempt at dirty-talk or moan. 

”Please. Keep touching me there, tug on it, make me come.” 

“You’re so desperate,” John breathed. Sherlock didn’t refute the statement. Instead, his head bobbed in agreement, and his cock gave a twitch in John’s loose grip. 

John gave an experimental twist, and devoted his focus to smearing as much of Sherlock’s precome around his length as he could. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut, his long lashes casting sweeping shadows across his angular cheekbones. 

John was still lax from his orgasm, but he nonetheless felt heat begin to pool in his lower gut. He increased the pace, fisting Sherlock’s cock with desperate pulls. 

”Wanna see you come,” he grunted. “See you make a huge mess of yourself.” 

Sherlock’s next moan was deep. Seventh level of hell kind of deep. It only took a few more harsh tugs before his body went tense, and his cock spasmed in John’s hands. Sherlock spilled between them in several harsh spurts, coating John’s abdomen with his spend. 

The detective’s bare chest was mottled with red, and it heaved as if he’d just chased a suspect across the whole of London. 

John glanced at his hand. It was hot right now, but he knew in a few hours having dried spunk on his hand wasn’t going to be quite as sexy. 

”I’ll go wash up.” 

Before he could even begin sliding out from bed, Sherlock wrapped a hand around his wrist and lapped at his palm, licking his own come off. 

”Oh.” John’s mouth fell open. This one night with Sherlock had provided him enough wank fuel to last the rest of his life. 

”Oh?” Sherlock echoed. “Is the great ‘Three Continents Watson’ actually speechless?” 

”Not speechless,” he protested. “I said ‘oh,’ and that’s… that’s a speech. Noise. Thing.” 

”Mm, but it would seem you’ve been rendered monosyllabic.” 

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “Pretty sure you fried my brain.” 

Sherlock grinned up at him. His earlier shyness had evaporated, replaced by his trademark smug grin. “Can’t have that, can we?” 

”No," he laughed. "As you said earlier, you’re useless without your blogger.” 

The two dissolved into giggles. John couldn’t remember sex ever leaving him this… bubbly before. He felt light and airy, and some of it could be credited to the flood of endorphins, but the rest was all Sherlock. 

”Well,” he asked, “are you going to stand the rest of the night or join me?” 

Sherlock didn’t need any further invitation. He clambered into bed beside him, before burrowing up against his side. John would never have imagined him as a cuddler, but he certainly wasn’t about to complain. 

“Good night,” Sherlock whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. 

John could hear the smile in his voice. He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “Yes. It is.”

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is invaluable <3


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